


Prick Up Your Ears

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Historical RPF
Genre: Execution, Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female Crowley (Good Omens), Fix-It, Gen, Historically accurate abuse references, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Tudor Era, Where I fix-it for a long dead teenager who deserved better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:33:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25007005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: Crowley has insinuated herself into the court of Henry VIII's fifth wife, a young woman with more secrets than she can handle. When her fortunes take a turn for the worst and Crowley is left feeling responsible, is there anything that can be done to prevent the will of a king?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Katherine Howard
Comments: 23
Kudos: 56
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	Prick Up Your Ears

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cassieoh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/gifts).



> Happy birthday my dearest, most darling Megan! I give you historical wife angst, sort of! I hope you like this story of a horribly abused teenage girl... I give great presents.
> 
> I had planned a fic along these lines for the Good AUmens events but long since decided that I wouldn't make the deadline. I guess I just needed the extra incentive of a birthday to get it done!

Crowley is with her when the Archbishop comes. Later she would curse herself for not protecting Katherine more, not preparing her better, the whispers around court had been more vicious than usual, and yet Crowley had dismissed them as idle gossip. It’s an inexcusable lapse in judgement for her.

The young queen trembles as she hears the charges against her, tears already flowing down her face. Yet, despite her youth and inexperience, she holds herself with more dignity than Crowley has seen from women thrice her age.

Archbishop Cranmer sits beside the queen, his tone low and gentle as if he is addressing a distressed child. Bitterly, Crowley supposes that he is. Katherine only becomes more distraught as Cranmer presses her, repeating his questions and growing stern when she doesn’t waver from her answers. Crowley bites her lip, her hands balling into fists in her skirts. No matter how much she wants to speak up, to intervene, she can’t - it’s not her place.

“I will ask you once more, m’lady, consider your answer most carefully as your life likely depends on it,” Cranmer says, his demeanour now hard and his face stern. Katherine sobs into her hands, every inch the scared child that she is. “Did you have a pre-contract of marriage with Francis Dereham?”

This went so much further back than Crowley knew, she’d seen Dereham sniffing about the queen, seeking audiences and favours, but thought him only an opportunistic upstart, not a true threat.

“Upon my life, sir, I did not!” Katherine insists. “Master Dereham took advantage of my inexperienced nature and did force himself upon me when I was a ward of the dowager duchess, that is the truth of it.”

Crowley’s stomach dropped like a stone. The queen had not been a virgin in her wedding bed. Henry was not going to be lenient, no matter what could be proven amongst the queen’s crimes.

Cranmer and the rest of his delegation look between themselves with a mixture of resignation and hope, they haven’t got quite what they wanted from Katherine but what they have learned is still enough to destroy her and her family. That, Crowley realises, is the true aim. Disgrace to the Norfolks is a boost to Cranmer. Katherine was doomed from the moment that Henry had laid his eyes upon her, no matter what secrets her history might have held.

“You are to be held here, at Winchester Palace, until such time as the King commands your removal,” Cranmer decrees. Katherine is so near insensibility as to be deaf to his words. “Your ladies may remain or leave your service, as it pleases them now. They will be given time now to collect their belongings before being escorted from the palace.”

“I will remain with the queen!” Crowley proclaims, surprising even herself by standing and staring down the guards that flank the bishop. The other ladies shift uncomfortably and Crowley spares a glare for the two most trustworthy, they acknowledge her with a nod.

“I will remain,” Maude says.

“And I,” Anne agrees.

The other ladies all leave with the guards, retreating to their chambers to pack and steal whatever they can. Crowley doesn’t blame them, not really. Cranmer and his cronies step away, discussing the turn of events in heated whispers.

Katherine looks between the faces of her three remaining attendants, bewildered and confused.

“Don’t stay,” she says, “I will ruin you.”

Anne laughs, shaking her head.

“I’ve served four queens before you, it’d take a lot more than this to ruin me, m’lady.”

Crowley grins at that, Anne has been good fun these past months and she’s confident that Anne will walk out of this scandal as well as she ever has. Maude shrugs, she’s married already and has made no secret about her desire to retire from court life. Her reputation will soon be of no consequence, even if her affiliation with Katherine were to prove deleterious.

“And you, Antoinette?” Katherine addresses Crowley by her given, or rather, taken, name.

“My lady,” Crowley says smoothly, “I will not do you the disservice of pretending that I ever possessed a reputation worth preserving.”

Despite herself, Katherine laughs, startling away her tears. She manages a weak smile and reaches for each of the women in turn, thanking them with a squeeze of her slender hand.

Presently, the guards return having ushered the departing ladies out of the palace. Cranmer makes a display of assigning men to watch over Katherine, demanding that she be kept supervised and away from any implement she may use to injure herself.

Crowley forces down a snarl at that, Cranmer wishes to see Katherine executed in disgrace and yet he would prevent her from taking that step herself. He doesn’t wish for her to die as a queen, Crowley realises. As they had with her cousin before her, they will strip Katherine of her titles and dignity long before she ever steps foot on the scaffold. If they have learnt anything else from Anne Boleyn, they won’t even give Katherine the pretence of a trial.

Cranmer and his friends leave not a moment too soon, Crowley needs time to think, to plan, to convince, and perhaps most of all, time to locate Aziraphale. Katherine does not deserve the fate that powerful men have assigned her, Crowley is determined to do everything she can to prevent it.

Two weeks later, Cranmer returns to a much-altered household. At the suggestions of her ladies, Katherine has adopted a more modest attitude and lifestyle. Her sleeves are still embroidered with her queen’s motto, but her jewels are put away and her dress more plain. It has been a difficult time for all four ladies. Anne has taken possession of Katherine’s jewels and inventoried them whilst making Katherine empty promises that it will only be temporary. Maude has spent countless hours distracting the young queen with needlework and music, anything to keep her hands occupied else she will inevitably be found pulling out her own hair. Crowley has used every power available to her to locate Aziraphale, whilst also calling in favours from all over the city to keep herself informed on Katherine’s situation.

Things are looking bleak, the women are tired, all evidence of gaiety and frivolity is absent from the once lively palace. Cranmer is shown to the small chapel where Katherine, Maude, and Anne are praying. Crowley greets him at the door with open contempt.

“My lady is at her prayers,” she informs him coldly. “You will await her.”

Archbishop Cranmer, a man entirely unaccustomed to women addressing him so boldly never mind telling him what to do, gapes at her like a fish and drops into the nearest chair. Crowley nods and takes a seat across the hall, brushing her skirts absently as she does so.

“I know why you’re here,” Crowley says at last. Cranmer stares at her. “Why Syon Abbey, though? She’s under house arrest here, why move her?”

“This palace is property of the crown,” he replies automatically.

“So is Syon Abbey,” Crowley says flatly.

Cranmer flounders, visibly struggling to answer.

“That’s what I thought,” Crowley says after a moment. She leans back against the wall, satisfied.

“Be that as it may, she will still be moved. It is the wish of the King.”

Crowley shrugs to say that she doesn’t care, she’s made her point. She hopes that he won’t actually ask what her point was because her only aim was to rattle him. He’s less likely to actively intimidate Katherine if his confidence has been knocked. Crowley decides to take another swing at him.

“Isn’t this errand a bit beneath you? Arranging the transfer of a teenage girl?” Crowley sneers, looking pointedly down her nose at the Archbishop. “Someone must be falling out of favour.”

She sees her words hit the mark, the secret fear he was harbouring blown wide open. It’s satisfying and, what’s more, he shrinks into himself noticeably.

The chapel door swings open and Katherine walks out with her head bowed, Maude and Anne behind her. Cranmer has to clear his throat to get her attention and Crowley is delighted to see it.

“I bring news.” He thrust a sealed letter into Katherine’s hands. “You are to be ready to depart for Syon Abbey within the hour. Gather what you need.”

He began to bow before remembering himself and stalking off. As glad as Crowley is to be rid of him, his aborted bow has confirmed what she suspected. Katherine’s titles have been stripped from her, although, surprisingly, her marriage had not been dissolved. To her credit, Katherine bears the news admirably. Again, she tries to convince the women to leave her, again they stay. Crowley and Anne take her to her chambers and begin sorting out what Katherine can take to Syon Abbey and what is property of the crown she no longer wears. More than once, Crowley has to hold Katherine’s sobbing body as Anne puts aside some trinket or other, stripping her of beloved gifts and memories.

“Hush, hush, dear girl,” Crowley whispers, “you don’t need these things.”

She wishes she had been able to find Aziraphale already, wishes she had any kind of plan in place, but she doesn’t. All Crowley has is her determination that nothing will happen to the frightened child in her arms.

Maude meets them at the main entrance, hugging a hastily packed bag to her body. While Crowley and Anne were helping Katherine, Maude had been doing her best to grab the worldly possessions of the three ladies.

A number of armed men stand at attention just outside the door, waiting to escort the group to the river. Crowley eyes their pikes bitterly, imagining the satisfaction of grabbing one and running it through the gloating Archbishop. That’s not the way out of this, though, and Crowley knows it.

The party move in sorrowful silence, walking the short distance to the river and the waiting barge. For a moment, Crowley thinks that Katherine might bolt, fearing for her life and freedom. The moment passes and Katherine steps down into the barge with more dignity than Crowley had expected. The Archbishop and two of the guards accompany them in the vessel, making for cramped quarters alongside the rowers.

It’s not a particularly long journey and the river is calm, but the chill air across the water makes Crowley shiver. She sees that Katherine is kept warm and away from any source of discomfort but there’s no one to offer such care to Crowley. She suffers as stoically as she can, knowing better than most how temporary these moments are.

When they finally arrive at the former abbey, Crowley steps onto the pontoon first, offering her hand to Katherine to save her from having to accept assistance from her jailers. Maude steadies her from behind as she steps up onto the platform. Katherine’s hand is trembling in Crowley’s grip but her face is stony, giving away nothing of her inner turmoil. It lasts until she sees the less-than-grand Abbey building itself. Once the wealthiest house of the Catholic church in England, it had fallen into disrepair following the expulsion of the religious order.

Wrapping her arm around Katherine’s shoulders, Crowley holds her and lets her cry.

“I can’t, I can’t stay here,” she sobs into Crowley’s chest. “Antoinette, please don’t make me stay here!”

Crowley strokes Katherine’s back whilst trying to guide her back into walking, the more of this breakdown that they can manage in private, the better. Cranmer doesn’t need any more fuel for the fire he’s lighting under Katherine’s reputation.

“Hush, hush, all will be well,” Crowley croons under her breath. “Once we are inside, you’ll find that life is much the same as ever.”

Crowley would make certain of that, one way or another. The four ladies didn’t require much in the way of space or amusements, but Crowley would be damned three times over again before she let Katherine suffer in what might be her final months.

As Crowley expected, and perhaps  _ because _ Crowley expected, a number of rooms had been cleaned and furnished in a manner that befits Katherine’s status as the wife of the King, servants are evident in the gardens and kitchens, assuring the party that their needs will be seen to. Without that extra stress, Crowley is sure that she can come up with a solid plan to get Katherine out of this whole mess. After all, Crowley feels more than a little responsible for how things have turned out.

Crowley wakes with a start, the room is still dark and warm with sleep, she can clearly see Anne and Maude in their beds despite the lack of light. They’ve been at Syon Abbey for a little over a week, settling into a new kind of normal for Katherine’s sake and it’s taken a lot out of them all. With no obvious cause for her sudden wakefulness, Crowley settles back into her bed and closes her eyes.

A familiar tingle in her mind solves the half-forgotten puzzle and, at once, Crowley is out of bed and following her senses towards the source of celestial energy. She finds Aziraphale in the courtyard, dressed in a nun’s habit, and pacing the flagstones.

“Hello, angel,” Crowley says from just behind Aziraphale’s left shoulder.

“Oh!” Aziraphale turns defensively, only relaxing into a warm smile as she sees Crowley’s grin. “Crowley! What are you doing here? Where are the nuns?”

For a moment, Aziraphale looks suspicious as if Crowley is somehow solely responsible for the disappearance of an entire religious order.

“Nuns? Aziraphale, where have you been? There aren’t any nuns here.”

Sensing the potential for a Conversation with a capital C, Crowley takes Aziraphale’s elbow and takes her inside to the empty kitchen, letting her explain on the way.

“I’ve been in Heaven for a while, had some things to catch up on, I suppose. I didn’t think I’d been gone long, though,” Aziraphale is babbling and Crowley can’t help but smile. “What year is it?”

“1541,” Crowley says as she stokes the fire up enough to heat some posset.

“Oh, oh dear.” Aziraphale pauses, looking thoughtful in the low light. “That is rather longer than I anticipated. Are we still on the eighth Henry?”

Crowley is silent for a minute, focusing on her task until she has two gently steaming cups of posset set on the table. She takes a seat opposite Aziraphale and pushes one cup over to her.

“I’ll catch you up, angel, and after that, there’s something I need your help with.”

By the time the kitchen staff start appearing, Crowley has given Aziraphale a crash course in the events leading to the Reformation, the dissolution of the monasteries, the subsequent downfall of Anne Boleyn, and the succession of wives that lead to the one currently sleeping somewhere in the building. Aziraphale had quickly recognised the folly in wearing the habit of a Catholic nun and had allowed Crowley to amend her dress to something less likely to have her executed.

With the cook staring daggers at them both, Crowley takes Aziraphale to the chambers they’ve been using at Syon Abbey so she can explain the final part of the current situation. Crowley spares a thought to change from her nightclothes to something more suitable for the queen’s lady-in-waiting and settles Aziraphale on a low couch away from the door before folding her legs and sitting at Aziraphale’s feet just as the first pale fingers of dawn begin to make themselves known through the leaded windows.

“Here’s where I messed up, angel,” Crowley begins, still hating herself for what her actions have wrought. “Katherine is only 17, she was 15 when the King spotted her and decided she’d make a good wife. That’s too young for this much responsibility and pressure. She’s a good person, Aziraphale, you have to believe me on that. I’m telling this all wrong.”

Aziraphale grips her shoulder and smiles in that way that always turns Crowley’s insides to mush.

“Just tell it as best you can and we’ll work it all out at the end.”

Crowley tries to return her smile but it feels forced and weak. With a sigh, she picks up her narrative once more.

“I thought that Katherine was a front for Henry, a pretty thing he could show off as evidence of his virility and power. I mean, you know how he is.” Aziraphale nods, she’d been around for the earliest of Henry’s dalliances, Crowley remembers. “Unless he was showing her off, he ignored her. All the attention and gifts and love-making he’d spoiled her with dried up to nothing. I suppose I should have seen the evidence of her past in how she took that loss, but I didn’t. There was a courtier, Thomas something-or-other, I think. They had been close before Henry had picked her up and, truly, I didn’t see the harm in her getting a little flattery from a welcome quarter. I am ashamed to say that I encouraged it, encouraged her inelegant flirtations with him. She seemed happy, Aziraphale! And I cautioned her about taking care not to overstep. I think I was already too late.”

Crowley looks away, miserable and hunched over her knees. Admitting this mistake to Aziraphale is harder than she thought, perhaps because she hasn’t admitted it to herself yet.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says gently, touching Crowley’s shoulder again. “Your intentions were good.”

“M’not good,” Crowley protests weakly, burying her face in her skirts.

“No, of course not,” Aziraphale corrects. “It was very wicked of you to, uh, incite lust?”

“Lust towards the queen, no less,” Crowley provides, despite herself.

“Exactly, you’re a very wicked demon who had a temptation get a bit out of hand, that’s all.”

“He’s going to have her executed, Aziraphale. I don’t think she’s even going to have a trial. That’s more than ‘a bit out of hand’, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale strokes the back of Crowley’s head in silence for a few minutes.

“What about her past didn’t you know, dear?” she asks eventually.

“She’s been abused, angel. I didn’t know about Mannox or Dereham, I didn’t know about the men and boys who had charmed her and manipulated her into thinking she was only worth the attention if she allowed them access to her body. I should have seen it, I should have known.”

Crowley is most assuredly not crying, but she shuffles closer to Aziraphale’s knees all the same and keeps her face turned away.

“You can’t blame yourself for that,” Aziraphale says softly, keeping up the gentle contact between them. “I’m going to help you, obviously I’m going to help you with this. I should like to meet with her, if I may.”

Crowley looks up at Aziraphale, ignoring the tears that cling to her eyelashes in favour of gazing at her saviour.

“I can arrange that, easily,” Crowley says. They both know that what she really means is ‘thank you’.

Aziraphale sneaks out of the house, avoiding detection with a subtle miracle or two, with a loose plan to return later in the morning and meet with Katherine. Crowley already feels better for having Aziraphale’s support, as well as an answer for why she hadn’t been able to locate the angel during her search. There’s nothing they can’t solve together, even if they have to get a bit inventive. Crowley’s steps are lighter than they have been in weeks as she makes her way to Katherine’s bedchamber to begin helping her to face the day.

A little after 10 am, a guard enters the room where Katherine and her retinue are gathered. Crowley glances up at him and then to Katherine, giving a subtle nod.

“My lady, there is a woman begging an audience with you,” the guard says, inclining his head slightly.

Katherine draws herself up in her chair, straightening her back and playing the queen for as long as she can.

“Show her in.”

A moment later, Aziraphale appears in the doorway and offers a graceful curtsey, her gaze lowered.

“M’lady,” Crowley says, slipping into the brief silence, “may I introduce Mrs Ophelia Fell?”

Katherine offers out her hand graciously and Aziraphale approaches to clasp it, pressing Katherine’s knuckles to her forehead.

“It is my honour,” Aziraphale says. Crowley holds back a snort at how thick Aziraphale is laying it on, she knows that this will put Katherine at ease. “I would speak with you about a somewhat delicate matter.”

Crowley gives Katherine a mental nudge in the right direction, just a subtle suggestion.

“Anne, Maude, would you be so kind as to leave us?” The regal edge has left Katherine already, it’s a miracle that the ladies don’t protest being dismissed whilst Crowley and the stranger stay.

Crowley locks the door behind them, making a note to make it up to them both later if she can. At Katherine’s invitation, Aziraphale takes Maude’s abandoned seat and draws close to Katherine’s side. Crowley flanks her, taking care not to sit so close as to make the girl feel hemmed in or cornered.

“Now, I understand you’ve got yourself into a bit of a pickle,” Aziraphale says kindly, exuding the kind of angelic energy that humans always react well to. “Would you like to tell me your side?”

The question seems to do something to Katherine, just the offer of listening to her story instead of forcing some other assumption onto her, it deflates her from struggling queen down to a lost and scared child.

Katherine tells her story and it is not a pretty one. Some of the details are worse than Crowley had feared. The way her music teacher had pushed and pressured her, the lies Dereham had told her to get under her skirts, the things she had been convinced were normal and right for a man to demand of a girl, it tore at Crowley’s heart until she was sure she had nothing left to drive the blood around her body.

Aziraphale nods understandingly, offering a handkerchief or embrace as needed, and lets Katherine pour out the horrors of her short life. They hear about how happy she was to come to court and serve Henry’s last wife, feeling like court life was something she could be good at, and then Henry had plucked her out of relative obscurity, using all the same lines that she had heard from every man before him. She was weak to his manipulation and flattered that the King was so charmed by her. He’d never even asked her to marry him, just stood her before a bishop and had the matter done. She thought it might have been romantic, but she had been so scared. Almost immediately, everyone who had known about her past came sniffing around, asking for favours. Dereham himself had insinuated himself at court, trying to leverage his history with the young queen to his advantage.

Crowley supplies the word “blackmail” bitterly, although Katherine insists that these people were her friends, wanting to share in her successes. Aziraphale and Crowley exchange a meaningful look but don’t press the issue, allowing Katherine to carry on with her tale.

Thomas Culpeper had paid her attention back before Henry had ever seen her, he had been sweet and generous with his compliments. She thought that, perhaps, this was a man who might truly care for her. He had taken a step back when Henry had made his intentions clear, but once the early passion had died down, Thomas reappeared with just as much sweetness as before.

The next part pains Crowley to hear, but she forces herself to listen and acknowledge the damage she has caused. The words that Katherine uses are wrong and awkward, barely describing the crimes committed against her. She explains how Thomas had been a good and true friend, a confidant and comfort. After Dereham threatened to expose her past, Katherine had confessed all to Thomas, expecting her kind friend to console her and offer solutions. Instead, he had become angry, jealous, raging that Katherine had been teasing him whilst giving herself to any man who asked. He told her that he was above begging for scraps when he could take whatever he wanted. Even as he forced himself upon her, Katherine blamed herself for leading him astray.

After that first occasion, fear and guilt prevented her from refusing him again. Her lady-in-waiting, Lady Rochford, gave Thomas free access to Katherine’s chambers and covered for them. She hadn’t known how to say no, or even if she was allowed an opinion on what men did with her body.

Nothing stays a secret for long in court. Eventually, someone gossiped into the wrong ear, either Thomas or Dereham or perhaps someone else entirely, but the damage was done. Henry found out and Katherine was being punished for choices she wasn’t sure she’d ever really made.

When she finishes speaking, Katherine folds her hands in her lap and won’t meet Crowley’s eyes, looking down in an awful combination of shame and misery.

“My dear girl,” Aziraphale says, reaching her hand out towards Katherine’s, “everything is going to be all right, I promise you.”

The poor thing looks fit to burst into tears at Aziraphale’s earnest promise. Crowley knows that it’s only a simple offer of baseless hope, Katherine has no reason to believe that the strange woman sitting in her receiving room can make any material difference to her fate, but hope is powerful and Katherine is in desperate need of some.

Later that night, Crowley finds Aziraphale in the gardens, ostensibly having left the house many hours prior.

“You were right,” Aziraphale says by way of greeting, “that poor girl needs help. You shouldn’t blame yourself, though. What you encouraged is most assuredly not connected with what he felt entitled to.”

Aziraphale’s words shouldn’t be such a balm to her tortured conscience, and yet Crowley can feel some of the weight of self-recrimination lifting from her shoulders. They begin to walk through the rose garden together.

“So, what are we going to do? She hasn’t got a hope of making it far if we help her escape.”

Aziraphale nods thoughtfully, running her fingers over the leaves and thorns of the rosebushes. Unable to bear the thought of seeing those fingertips pricked and bleeding, Crowley guides her away from the plants.

“I think,” Aziraphale says slowly, “I may have an idea.”

She does. It’s definitely cheating and will take some setting up to pull it off properly, but Crowley can handle that, she will do better with something to focus her energies on. They talk through the details and split up the preparation between them, falling far too easily into the comfort of being co-conspirators. Crowley knows that she’ll be longing for this closeness for centuries after this is all over. The suffering will be worth it, though, if they can only protect this one girl.

The winter passes in uncomfortable tension. Katherine’s nerves become more unravelled by the day, no matter how often Crowley assures her that all will be well if she can just hold on to patience a little longer. Crowley’s network of court gossips and informants keep her abreast of the developments, meaning that she has a full day to prepare Katherine before the guards arrive to escort her to the Tower of London.

Knowing that her assurances have started to ring hollow, Crowley sits beside Katherine in the barge as they travel downriver once more. She holds her shivering hands and promises most fervently that she need only endure a few more days and all will be well. Crowley does everything but tempt her into believing, refusing to mess with her any more than she already had to.

Katherine bows her head as they approach the tower, Crowley knows that she doesn’t want to see the brutish display of piked heads that line the river. With time, weather, and ravens, it’s unlikely that she would be able to pick out the heads of the men she felt responsible for, but that wasn’t really the point. It really wasn’t the point at all. Crowley shelters her as best she can until they are well clear of Traitor’s Gate and the prying eye sockets of the dead.

Aziraphale is waiting for them, having placed herself on the staff at the tower for convenience sake. She stands at the top of the stone steps, her face grave and mirthless. Even Anne and Maude are more subdued than usual, feeling the weight of an approaching end.

Following Aziraphale into the castle, Crowley keeps Katherine close to her side, supporting her up the steps and glaring down any man who dared get too close. The past few months have carved chunks out of the former queen, her face is sharp and sallow, her gown hangs loosely from her shoulders, and her hair is limp. Hope has only sustained her so far.

Katherine almost weeps when Aziraphale shows them to the chambers they’ll be staying in, confessing to Crowley that she had feared a damp, stone cell with rats and worse crawling all over. Instead, they have a well-appointed room with enough room for all four ladies to sleep and live together for a few days, at least. A few days is likely all they’ll need, Crowley thinks.

A quick exchange with Aziraphale confirms that their plan is as ready as it can be. It’s as much of a plan as it can be.

Only two days later, after their evening meal, word comes that Katherine’s death has been ordered, the warrant is signed and she is to be executed by beheading the next morning. Her sobbing is dreadful to behold as she wanders the room, clutching her throat and wailing. Crowley almost has to force her to stand still and listen to the reassurances and reason that she can offer.

She can do nothing to dissuade Katherine from requesting that the executioners block be brought to the room so she can practice laying her neck upon it. It’s sickening, Crowley thinks, the way that Katherine is actually more concerned with dying in a way that doesn’t further disgrace her family than saving her own life. After Maude and Anne have turned in for the night, exhausted by the long months of waiting as much as these final hours of stress, Crowley sits beside Katherine on the floor and takes her hands.

“I need you to listen to me, sweet girl,” Crowley begins, willing Katherine to break out of the hysteria that threatens to overtake her mind. “Everything is going to be all right, I am going to fix this for you. I need you to believe that, I need you to hold it in your heart, even when it seems like I have failed, I need you to believe it fiercely. Can you do that for me?”

Katherine looks at her with exhausted eyes, but something sparks enough behind them that Crowley knows her words have been heard.

“I can do that, I can believe in you.”

Crowley holds her tightly, pretending that tears aren’t falling from her eyes and into Katherine’s chestnut hair.

“That’s it, you hold on to that.”

Unsurprisingly, Katherine doesn’t sleep that night. Crowley stays up with her and helps her dress in the plain white gown, braiding her hair to be tucked under the simple cap. She’s determined and iron-willed when the guards come for her, holding her head high as if she were still a queen and still capable of commanding any one of them. The trembling, crying girl of the night before is invisible under the facade of bravery that Katherine wears. Crowley has never been more proud of her.

It’s February and the air is bitingly cold, even through Crowley’s cloak and fur-lined dress. Katherine must be near freezing as she climbs the scaffold and shrugs off her cloak but she hides it well. Crowley is supposed to pass the cloak to Maude, but she keeps hold of it, clutched to her chest as Katherine steps forward and addresses the small crowd of witnesses.

She says something pious and repentant, pretty enough to be unremarkable, but Crowley can barely hear it. She’s looking for Aziraphale in the crowd, seeking that last confirmation that things are as they should be. Katherine’s almost at the block before Crowley spots her, towards the back. Aziraphale gives a nod and Crowley feels the relief of stress leaving her body. Muscles that she didn’t know were tense began to relax as she watches Katherine get to her knees.

Katherine casts one last nervous look over her shoulder at Crowley who gives her the most reassuring smile she knows, she has to believe or this won’t work at all.

The executioner’s axe rises high and Crowley concentrates all of her energy, all of her power, into one decisive act. Just as she thinks she’s about to burst a blood vessel and the axe is beginning to fall, time gives way and comes to an abrupt halt around her.

For a moment, nothing moves, there’s no sound, not even the rush of blood around Crowley’s body. She can’t begin to do anything as pointless as breathe until she knows that this hasn’t been a wasted effort. It all hinges on one thing.

A muffled, shuddering breath shakes Katherine’s ribs as she holds back a sob, the agony of her position leaving her insensible to her wider surroundings. At once, Crowley springs into action and leaps onto the platform, ducking around the frozen executioner and dropping to her knees beside Katherine.

“It’s all right now, sweetheart.” Crowley drapes the cloak back around Katherine’s shoulders. “You’re safe now.”

Katherine lets Crowley help her up, staring in wide-eyed disbelief at the eerie tableau of stationary figures. The only other sign of life is Aziraphale, rounding the side of the scaffold and holding out her hands to help Katherine down steps she was never supposed to descend.

“You did ever so well,” Aziraphale gushes, smiling in a way that makes Crowley’s insides twist. It isn’t jealousy, she dismisses the feeling before she can examine it any further.

“Me?” Katherine asks, bewildered.

“Oh yes, you had to believe very strongly. Any doubt in the promises we’ve made you and you would be as frozen as the rest of them and we wouldn’t have been able to move you.” Aziraphale explains as she hurries Katherine past guards and gates. Once they are tucked out of sight, Crowley hugs Katherine tightly, knowing they’ll likely never see each other again.

“Live a good life, Katherine, be happy,” she says, not crying. It’s not a blessing, not really, but it has power and Aziraphale must notice. “Thank you, angel. I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

“Don’t worry, my dear,” Aziraphale says, which doesn’t really answer anything that Crowley said but a whole lot that she hasn’t voiced.

Before she can make a complete fool of herself, Crowley gives Katherine one last squeeze and hurries back to the scaffold before time decides to carry on without her. She creates a form from the firmament, identical to Katherine in every way except for the spark of life which is a gift only God can give, and arranges it where Katherine had been kneeling when time stopped. Taking her place back behind the scaffold, Crowley loosens her grip on time and hears the sickening thunk of solid steel hitting oak. Maude gasps and covers her face, causing Anne to take her into her arms. They had both been fond of Katherine, seeing her as something like a younger sister, they took no joy in her death. Crowley wishes she could tell them the truth, but Aziraphale had insisted that no one could know.

As the lifeless head was held up for inspection, Crowley felt a burst of warmth in her heart from knowing that somewhere, hundreds of miles away, a mysterious young widow had just arrived in her new home where she would be safe and comfortable for many more decades to come.

  
  



End file.
